Ill Dreams

Aranel Carnilino; 2006

Peregrin Took, guard of the Citadel, solemnly lit the well-used stump of candle at his bedside, driving away a small measure of gloom. The rain set a steady thudding on the white tiled roof of his lodging, but he hardly noticed, as the noise had merged with the silence.

He perched on the edge of the over-sized mattress, watching the flickering candlelight set strange dark creatures on the walls. On a whim, he picked up the candle and made the shadows dance. This distracted him for a handful of minutes, but finally, he forced himself to crawl under the covers. He turned to blow out the candle, but the breath that emerged was tentative, and only teased the long tongue of flame. He turned away from the light with a sigh, wishing Gandalf would come back soon.

Shadows had been his only companions for too long now, and a feeling of malaise was growing on him. The carved bear faces along the skirting of the corner table snarled menacingly from the darkness. A sentinel passing by became a fiend endeavoring to break in. Even the creaking of the building as it settled made him jump, and he scolded himself for a coward.

At last, an exhausted stupor overcame him, and he sat, half-asleep against the bed frame. He'd nearly despaired of Gandalf's return when there finally came the thudding of a walking stick on the cobblestones outside the door.

"Well, my lad," said the Wizard with a weary sigh, leaning his staff in the corner. "I know that look."

Pippin swallowed. "It's nothing."

"Out with it."

The hobbit shuddered as the memory returned, the dream that had plunged him into this mood in the first place.

Dark wanderings through the mist. Dripping trees sway, shadows shifting as moonlight diffuses. Gnarled branches grapple and snatch at Pippin—he just barely escapes this one, that one, and the next. He looks wildly about the surrounding gloom. The great ancient trees creak as wild gusts buffet their branches. There is a muffled cry for help. Or is it only the mournful wailing of the wind?

"Frodo?" he calls, but there is no answer. "Sam? Merry? Can you hear me?"

The shadows continue to shift. A tempest strikes. Driving rain falls in sheets, flashes illumining corners of the dark sky followed by thunderous roars of disapproval. The pleading cry comes again, and this time, Pippin recognizes the voice. It is Frodo. He's sure of that now.

"Where are you? Call out again! Is Sam with you?"

Pippin's voice seems lost in the wind and the rain. Once the words have departed him, they dissipate into the downpour.

The cries grow steadily further away. Pippin stumbles, plunging into a sloshing rivulet.

"Please come back! Please! Did He find you? I- I didn't mean to take the palantir from Gandalf! Oh, I'm such a fool. Such a Fool of a Took."

Pippin looked up sorrowfully. Sharing his dream with the Wizard filled him again with self-loathing, such that he could scarcely bear Gandalf's gaze upon him.

"Such a fool," he repeated, and shook his head, shaggy curls bouncing listlessly.

"You are concerned for Frodo and Sam," Gandalf offered, voice low and resonant in the small space. "I know. I am as well. But you must not fault yourself. Only I can. Frodo and Sam struggle ceaselessly on to their deaths, and I linger here in idle uncertainty - now hopeful, now despairing. Such responsibility, my lad. Such a weight on my mind, as if I hadn't enough things to trouble about already. But you, Peregrin Took? Let me do the fretting! Who can say what may transpire? We may yet be fortunate."

Pippin finally met the Wizard's eyes, blinking at blurring vision.

"But Gandalf... I- did I show Him where they were?"

Gandalf tugged at his beard, considering. "At worst, the information you knew would reveal we intended something other than smuggling the Ring to Gondor. You have undergone a struggle that I myself dreaded to face."

Pippin remembered what Gandalf had told Théoden after the incident with the seeing stone - that Sauron might believe Saruman had forced a hobbit to look into the palantir as a kind of torment. He desperately hoped it was true. He couldn't bear the knowledge he had caused his friends to come to grief. All because he'd had to look at that stupid stone. Another question popped into his head.

"Why was I so drawn to it? Who made them, the palantiri? Were there some magical—"

"Peregrin Took!" cried Gandalf, easing himself onto the bed across from Pippin's. "You have only your irksome and unnatural curiosity to blame. As far as I know, the palantiri have no such alluring properties. All the same, they are not to be trifled with. They were wrought by Fëanor long ago - by the same hand that created the Silmarili. Perhaps you've never heard of them. They wreaked havoc upon Middle-earth. Toppled kingdoms. Drove people mad. They- ah, I see."

The Wizard chuckled. "Old Gandalf has fallen into young Peregrin's trap again. Tricked into answering yet another question! Well, no more. Even Wizards must be allowed peace from the importuning of curious young hobbits." He threw back his covers and lay down. "Now, blow out that candle and ease your mind about Frodo and Sam. What is meant to happen will happen."

Pippin felt a certain unexpected peace settle over him like a warm blanket, a willingness to trust in the Wizard's own steady faith. Still, other questions surfaced, begging to have their chance.

"But what about—"

"Oh no, my lad. I think not. Good night."

The hobbit subsided, extinguishing the candle-flame with a single huff.

"Good night, Gandalf."

The End